


Risky Ventures

by Maddginger



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Bets, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Seduction, Unexpected Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:01:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddginger/pseuds/Maddginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She shouldn't have laughed at him. He shouldn't have gambled about feelings.  It's a bet she believes he cannot win, and of course, this gives him the incentive to up the ante.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upping the Ante

“Why is it so amusing to you?” He queried, at a loss for the first time in a long time. Uncharacteristic in one so immodest.

“Because Sherlock—” She threw her hands in the air, as was her habit. “I think you’re a lovely person, I just don’t believe that you could seduce me.” It sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears.

“You don’t find me attractive?” He asked again, eyes wide and staring, openly attempting to reveal nothing of import. That was the danger when one began to teach a pupil, they began to use your tricks against you. 

_She had used lovely._

“Well, no—it’s not that. I just don't find you to be a suitable possible mate.” She kept eye contact, wise woman.

_She had agreed that she found him attractive._

“A bet.” He interrupted quickly. “One month and I’ll have seduced you quite thoroughly and with your knowledge of my attempts. Willingly.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He smirked, without smiling, his words conveying what his face refused.

She smiled, her irritating half-smile that knew she was being played and yet dared to return his volley. “What If I seduce you first?” She asked, daring him to pause. 

_Your move_.


	2. We Come Running

_Day 3_

 

Joan Watson enjoyed many things in life, however, there was very little she enjoyed more than her morning run. Pure catharsis in the form of exertion and adrenaline and sheer will. It would always drain her and consistently leave her craving more. We all have drugs, and running was her heroine. Perhaps not the greatest metaphor from a former rehab counselor and yet surprisingly affective. Regardless of case or shine, she donned her running tights and loose hoodie and set off, earbuds and mix ready for action. The morning routine gave her the ability to think through her day, and her current client— or lately the current case. 

“D’you mind if I join you?” 

She whirled around to face a very uncertain looking Mr. Homes clad in nothing but a pair of ancient looking gym shorts and a rolling stones t-shirt that was far too tight across his surprisingly muscular chest, with something indescribable staining the lower left corner of one of his sleeves. It looked like old blood; she tried not to stare or think about it too deeply.

“On my run?” She asked with incredulity, pulling an earbud out and staring at him suspiciously.

He proceeded to make a grand show of standing on one leg and stretching dramatically. “Well, you said it could be good for my somewhat tenuous sobriety to engage in routine physical exercise.”

“And you told me that you don’t run. Period.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Apparently you’ve changed my mind on the matter dear Watson— as you have on many things.” He added softly, making her frown. 

“As long as you can keep up.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they’d run three blocks he was wheezing and flagging behind. His normally pale face reduced to a patchy reddish network of veins and irritation. He was trying his level best however, and managed to keep her in sight. 

“Are you alright?” She finally asked, bouncing back to his present spot barely out of breath. He eyed her dourly. 

“It looks like it’s going to rain.” He replied, and she noticed the dark circles around his eyes, dark circles that had only become more pronounced since their scandal on the docks with Irene Adler— or was it Moriarty now?

“Of course it won’t.” Cheerful as always she took off again, this time making the attempt to stay with him, even at his rookie’s pace; offering advice and positivity. Kindly correcting his posture; and the way he held his arms, even the way he breathed while jogging. For the first time since they had met, she was the skilled and he the neophyte. A new side of Sherlock appeared below the normal surface of confidence and knowledge— listening to her carefully while she demonstrated; and accepting critique with barely a word. It was as if he had been kidnapped and replaced by a completely different man. 

“Why those trainers?” He asked suddenly, after they had made some progress. 

It only took her a few moments to realize that he referred to her rather grubby looking running shoes that she had nearly worn down to the soles.

“Why?” 

He shrugged and began to rattle off as if it were the most obvious thing in the world— an irritating habit of his— “Since the day we met, I have never seen you untidy or unkempt in any way, in fact you tend to be zealously meticulous in every area of your grooming and appearance. Those shoes— are obviously high-end as evidenced by the highly visible logo on the side and yet they’re at least two or three seasons out of fashion and nearly worn out. ” He pointed. “Those _tennis shoes_ defy all past habits and observations with every fiber of their being. Why?”

“I bought them while I was in residency.” She replied after they were almost run down by an impatient cabby, hoping that he would leave the matter lie. He didn’t, of course he wouldn't,  staring at her pointedly until she finally spoke again.

“At the time I was well-set financially and could afford the best shoes on the market. I pre-ordered them _months_ in advance: size 6 ½, lightning yellow; pitch-black laces. They were on backorder and out of stock for nearly my entire employment there— and then the incident happened at the hospital. And I stopped caring about everything. I didn’t run, or really leave my apartment for… weeks. One day—” She laughed suddenly, her nose wrinkling at the details of the memory. “It was a Sunday I think— My doorbell rang, and there was this package on my doorstep with these shoes in my exact size, I didn’t even care that they weren’t yellow. It was the sign I needed. They're the best I’ve owned, and as silly as it sounds— I’ve never been able to talk myself into spending the money and replacing them,  there are aways more important things to spend that much money on than running shoes.”

Sherlock said nothing, listening and jogging doggedly beside her. 

“Watson—” He interrupted, nodding his head toward someone who had nearly run into them. “This running business can be used as an excellent exercise in observation. Did you perchance notice the couple that we just passed…” He prattled on about a past case, and parallels in crime and people-watching, Watson was just glad that he was acting like himself again.

It was four blocks later that it began to downpour on them, provoking a wide grin to appear on his serious face.

“Told you.”

 

* * *

 

Day 4

Watson trudged up to the front door of the brownstone, mind on a murder and body protesting loudly about the ridiculous situation she had gallivanted into today. Sherlock was surprisingly not inside and the house lay empty and silent. Running back to the house in the rain it had turned out to be the beginnings of a lovely cold. She felt like absolute crap and had been dreaming of her bed for hours.

A package lay outside her bedroom door. She approached it cautiously, all the detective training she had been forced into clicking into place. 

_Completely plain and unremarkable. No distinguishing features or indications of its origin._

The voice in her head was starting to sound British and perspicacious and irritating. Throwing all caution to the wind she pulled off the top of the box, stopping dead at the sight of its contents. Heart falling to the floor 

Size 6.5, lightning yellow, pitch-black laces.

 

_So that you may always come running when I need you  —SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I feel like I'm having trouble portraying their voices properly. If you notice, let me know, also, if there's an idea for the wooing of Watson/Sherlock give me a prompt and I'll see what I can do.
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Madd


	3. Chapter 3: Pasta

Day 5

 

“Watson!” His shriek shattered her sense of calm, and nearly poked her own eye out in the process. Applying mascara had even become a dangerous process around the bloody man. 

_Bloody, loo, lovely? What’s happening to me?_

“It is my day _off_!” She shouted back, wondering when they had become a bickering old couple reduced to shouting across rooms. “I am not getting sucked into your neurosis!” 

“ _Watson!”_ This time more insistent and altogether more irritating. With a sign she stood and sauntered downstairs, hoping that this time he hadn’t dislocated anything. The open doorway brought with it the sultry smells of some delicious sauce simmering over an open stove. 

There was Holmes, hovering over an open pot stirring it slightly and haphazardly, an open cookbook lay splattered on the counter and he had propped a towel over his shoulder.

“Going out?” He asked, doing a heroic job of sounding light. “ _Ouch”_ He hissed, when the sauce splattered in the heat and splashed him.

“Yes. For drinks.” She retorted, still not able to figure out how it was any of his business, “How did you even…” However all queries died out as he looked up at her and stopped dead, his mouth falling open and his eyes taking in her state of dress. It wasn’t his usual lightning round of observation and deduction coupled with an almost bored attitude with life at hand. It was a gaze, intense enough to make her blush as he took in her appearance. She knew him, not one iota was missed. From her shoes to the way she had styled her hair. He _studied_ her as he would a piece of evidence. To Joan’s surprise, she let him, allowing him to… admire her. 

_“She walks in beauty, like the night”_ He exhaled gently “Date.” He corrected, eyes narrowing. “Not drinks, _date_ — Do you like spaghetti al forno?”

“I’ve always been more of an Alla Salvia person, not much of a fan of red sauce…” She trailed off. 

_He cooks?_

Joan Watson shifted slightly on the balls of her feet. “How on earth did you—”

 “—The shape of your dress accentuates the slight attractive flare of your hips, the red heels to bring attention to the feminine ankles and the runner’s muscles of your calves. The cut of the neckline indicates the exceptional build of your abdomen and leaves all viewers wondering what it would take to see below. The entire outfit is planned with the intention to seduce, it’s quite obvious really…”

“Jealous Sherlock?” She asked, remembering the bet, and the running shoes and the _staring_ and it angered her because he automatically assumed that she would fall for such ruses. That she could be _solved_ like everyone else. Clearing the space between them in few steps she stalked up to him. Interfering with his personal space. Using every ounce of detective work he had taught her thus far she watched him react. Pupils, pulse rate quickening, the vein at the top of his head becoming more prominent. 

“Not at all.” He forced platonically, pasting a smile on his face. “You look stunning by the way.” He gestured up to her head. “Glad to see you’ve taken my advice on leaving your hair down— it,” His eyes darted back down to hers. She was still staring intently at him. Her lips a luxurious painted red accentuating the skin tone, and slight smirk. He licked his lips gently. “It, um, accentuates the shape of your face, and the height of your cheekbones. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder… His eye will not go wanting.” His voice had gone soft and light and emotional, his fingers which had been defining the exact shape of her face along with her hair had slipped forward and brushed her cheek, thumb gently tracing the pattern of her blusher along the petite bones. His fingers were icy and she shivered. 

“And you?”

Her voice seemed to snap him from his reverie, the constantly moving hands dropped to his sides and he reclined back gently. Though his pulse had not slowed and his eyes were still lit with inner fire.

“For as long as I can remember.” 

The facade shattered like glass. “What?”

“I’ve loved spaghetti for as long as I can remember.” The smirk appeared on his lips, insufferable man. “What did you think I was talking about?”

Lips parted she sighed angrily and left.

* * *

 

The man she met was handsome and polite. He complimented her and listened intently when she spoke and did everything correctly. Unmarried, successful, made the proper amount of jokes and anecdotes. She excused herself as soon as possible and politely distracted him from asking her for a return feature.

 

* * *

 

His laptop was left open when she arrived, a cooking website was open with the recipe for _Pasta Alla Salvia_ remained open. The note pinned to the stove stood stark against the surprisingly neat countertop. 

_At least he wasn’t a messy cook._  

 

_Watson,_

_Ran out of spaghetti, Thank God for google. leftovers in the fridge. — SH_

_PS: You owe me. Opera? 7.30?_

_PPS: I may have lied earlier. I wasn’t talking about spaghetti._


	4. Chapter 4: Handcuffs

Day 6

The handcuffs clinked gently as she fastened them. The muscles in his arms tightened at her feathery touches.

"Watson if you're going to treat me like fine China this will not be a useful exercise." He tilted his head back to look at her, she ignored the superiority in his blue eyes, stirring up the lack of certainty she had been feeling in the last couple of days into a furious level of competition. Ever since they had made their ridiculous bet he had been winning.

Briefly. Briefly. She had gotten the jump on him with the dress and the red heels.

"Fine." She muttered, kneeling behind him yet again, and pressing hard until they rested at least a click more snug than was comfortable. He groaned in pain and chuckled. "I just don't understand why this couldn't be done after lunch."

"Because an empty stomach means that your entire blood flow can be devoted to brain function and not digesting whatever lovely takeout gem we've ingested recently." She pressed in again and they clicked, possibly cutting off blood flow to his thumbs. "Something on your mind Watson?"

"Just musing." She said confidently, leaning forward until her lips were almost touching his earlobe. "This is the least interesting thing that we could do with handcuffs."

She felt him stiffen suddenly. Head remaining painfully erect, he barely breathed.

"Pardon—"

"You heard me." She was leaning so close the fine hairs above his ear ruffled slightly. Goose pimples broke out along his arms. "Or do you not like the idea of a woman being in charge?"

He whimpered out something indecipherable.

"What was that Sherlock— something on your mind?"

She stepped back and came around to face him— pupils blown wide, flushed and emotionless.

"Watson—" He hissed.

She shook her head and laughed. "We should have gone to lunch." Her eyes dropped meaningfully. "Looks like blood flow is no longer devoted to your brain function. Once you get free of those handcuffs, I'm thinking Thai."

Joan Watson turned to leave.

Triumph.

A low click behind her; she suddenly found herself thrown against the door.

"My dear Watson," He said into her ear, flipping her around and holding her against the smooth wood, his voice dropping into a low growl as it tended to when he was emotional about something. "I have several things on my mind at this moment— none of them requiring brain function and all including handcuffs."

He leaned forward and inhaled deeply. "My god woman you smell intoxicating." He leaned forward and brought his lips gently to the juncture of her chin and neck. This time it was she that whimpered.

Without warning he stepped backward and resumed his previous seat, handcuffs dangling between his fingers. "Opera tonight. Half seven.— try not to be late, you'll drive yes? I know how much you enjoy taking charge." He checked his watch and stood. "7.4 seconds, I do believe I broke my record— blood flow be damned."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my favorite chapter so far. It was the easiest to write because it felt like them.
> 
> Let me know what you think, and if you think i update too quickly or if i need to change my perception of them. And please please, continue with the prompts. I've done some fluffier chapters, so if you've got any more serious situations to throw my way please let me know :D
> 
> As always,
> 
> later days,
> 
> Red


End file.
